Adjacent
by but tonight we dance
Summary: When a friend goes missing, it's up to the soldier and the spy to save him. They encounter old and new enemies, fight their toughest battles and in the end they find much more in each other than they were looking for. Post CA:TWS
1. Chapter 1

**Hi, everyone, I'm here with my first ever Avengers or rather Captain America fic. So, after watching CA: TWS I very much liked how they handled Steve and Natasha's relationship. In this story I will focus on the connection between them and as they have quite a bit in common we can never know where they might end up. :) This piece is now declared a one-shot as long as you guys don't decide that I should make something bigger out of it. I have a few ideas so I'd be glad to write a multi-chapter story but only if you guys want it too.**

**The story takes place a couple months after CA:TWS. Hope you'll enjoy!**

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><p><em>Nothing lasts forever. <em>

This was what Steve Rogers had come to realize since he had woken up after having been frozen in ice for almost seventy years. Waking up he had to acknowledge that time had passed him by. _Life _had passed him by. He didn't recognize the world around him anymore. The places and people he had once known had all been gone with the years and he felt all alone, lost in a world he didn't belong. He was living in an unfamiliar environment with too few things he could relate to.

There were of course people around who helped him adjust to the modern world. They did a pretty good job considering that after a couple years he had been able to find a place for himself in the twenty-first century. He had managed to catch up with technology, which made up a huge part of the world he had been dropped into; he had learned modern social customs even though he didn't quite approve of all of them; and of course, fighting alongside the Avengers, Steve could do the one thing that he had been trained for, the one thing he was meant to do: serve his country.

Still, standing before the black coffin of his only love, Steve couldn't help but question the reason why he had been given a second chance at life. It wasn't fair. Margaret Carter had dedicated her whole life fighting for what she thought was right. But not with a gun out on the battlefield as a soldier. Even out of the line of fire, Steve felt like she had done a lot more than he had or he ever could do for that matter. She was one of the main reasons SHIELD had existed. She was the one who had given him strength to get up when he felt down, the one who made him feel worthy. Peggy had done so many great things for the world and yet he was the one standing in the cemetery, watching as she left the Earth on her final journey to a better place.

The black suit Steve was wearing felt uncomfortably restrictive against his body. The warmth of the autumn sun was suffocating making it difficult to breathe, but he ignored the urge to loosen his tie and stood still, giving Peggy the respect she deserved. It was a late September day and the air was hot and thick, something that wasn't usual that time of the year in Great-Britain. Although Peggy had achieved the most under the American flag, abiding by her family's wish, they had decided to rest her in British soil.

The priest finished his speech and Steve realized that he hadn't been paying attention. He was overwhelmed by memories of the times Peggy and he had spent together and that was something he couldn't, he _didn't want _to break away from. They hadn't had the chance to be together as much as they had both wanted and that made those few occasions especially precious. He felt ashamed for not listening, but honestly there was nothing that he didn't already know about Peggy's life. A couple of people closest to Peggy stood to say a few kind words, but he just stood there like a statue. He was afraid that if he were to speak he wouldn't be able to contain his emotions no matter how strong he thought he was.

Steve saw someone in his periphery stand next to him and a moment later he felt Natasha's hand slide into his. She was the one Steve knew, beside Fury and Agents Coulson and Hill from SHIELD, to attend the funeral. After SHIELD had been dissembled, only some of the higher level agents had been invited. They had to keep it below the radar so whatever remnants of Hydra were left wouldn't have the chance to locate the proceeding. Of those few to have been informed, even fewer made it. Clint Barton was on a mission to find remaining members of Hydra overseas, Bruce Banner didn't consider himself a permanent member of the Avengers, Thor wasn't even expected to show up as it was known that he had more important issues to deal with in Asgard, and Tony Stark just hadn't admired the whole idea of SHIELD enough to attend the funeral of one of the founders of the agency. Steve looked at the other Avengers more like partners than friends, so their absence didn't hurt him much. He was more thankful to those who showed up.

Natasha didn't need to look at Steve or talk to him to know what he was going through, but she wanted to make sure he knew she was there for him. During the last couple of months they had worked together Natasha and Steve had become intimate friends, something that she treasured very much. She had a tough time when it came to trusting people. Steve, though, saw something in her even she wasn't sure was there, and that faith toward her meant too much to just let go. She wanted to prove Steve that she was worthy of his trust.

Natasha wasn't sure how long they had been standing there, but by the time she had decided to leave Steve alone with his thoughts, everyone else had already gone. She slowly took her hand from his and turned to go, but not before stopping to catch a glimpse of the man's face. She shouldn't have done so. Steve didn't move, but Natasha recognized the pure sorrow and hopelessness that reflected in his eyes. It was heartbreaking to see. She wished there was something she could do to help him cope with his loss, something to help him carry the burden, but she knew there wasn't. What Steve felt was so complex that she struggled to comprehend the full depth of his anguish. Natasha laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder, then walked away leaving a broken man behind with his grief.

The weakening rays of the sun had already started their descent toward the horizon, but Steve still stood in the empty cemetery unable to leave Peggy behind. A hundred feelings were whirling through his mind, a mixture of sorrow, anger, love and a few he couldn't clearly define. A chilly wind gently stroked his face and he shivered. Steve gathered his strength and walked to the coffin in front of him, moving slowly under the burden of his heavy heart. He pictured Peggy's face under the smooth black wood, not the face that had aged throughout the years, but the beautiful face of a gorgeous and gracious woman telling him to meet up with her for a dance. He carefully placed the rose he had been holding on top of the coffin along with the other flowers. A single tear slipped down his face and fell at his feet. The ground swallowed it immediately, leaving no sign it had ever existed. Steve let out a deep sigh he had been holding back since he had arrived, but it didn't make leaving any less painful. He supposed it wasn't going to be any easier for a while.

"Goodbye, Peggy." The words came out faint and choked as they carried a painful finality.

Steve's eyes lingered on the deep crimson of the rose for another moment, then he turned and left the cemetery knowing that a piece of his heart would always remain buried there.

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><p>Steve couldn't go to sleep that night. In the dimly lit hotel room, by the single bedside lamp, he sat on the couch, listening to the silence that enveloped him. He still wore his suit, only his jacket and tie were carelessly thrown on the bed next to his suitcase. The room was still, the only movement coming from the slightly fluttering curtains in front of the open windows. There was something in the delicate, rippling motion that helped Steve relax, and with so many things on his mind he could definitely use that.<p>

As much as he tried, his thoughts kept going back to Peggy and his life in the 1940s. It seemed like it was only yesterday that he had applied to the army and been rejected for his ineligible physical attributes and health issues. He wondered whether he should have just gone home afterwards and never lingered, giving Dr. Erskine a chance to recruit him for the super soldier project. Maybe that way he could have lived a normal life. He wouldn't have had to watch Bucky fall from the train. He wouldn't have had to mourn his best friend's death for so long merely to find out that he hadn't died that day, but had been found by Hydra and programmed to kill for a cause he had fought against his whole life. But just as rapidly as the idea had entered Steve's mind, he pushed it aside. His greatest desire had always been helping those in need, and if it hadn't been for Howard Stark and Dr. Erskine he would never have had the chance to become Captain America, an idol, a ray of hope in a world where many couldn't fight the darkness around them. Of course he had to endure terrible things, but had he not joined the army on Dr. Erskine's advice he never would have met Peggy. And that he would never trade in for anything.

Although one of the two people that meant most to him was gone, there was still one he could save. Bucky was out there, somewhere. Steve had promised himself that he would find him. Hydra might have toyed with his mind and made him do whatever they had wanted, but the Bucky Barnes he knew was still inside the ruthless killing machine he had become. Bucky had proved it when he pulled Steve out of the Potomac, saving him from dying the second time. For everything Bucky had done for him in the past, Steve owed him.

He and Sam had spent the last few months trying to track him down, but without success. They had traveled across borders, hoping to find someone who had seen him, but Bucky obviously didn't want to be seen. It only made Steve more desperate because he didn't want to give Hydra the upper hand in finding him first. They might have been uncovered and their operations inside SHIELD been stopped, but Steve had no doubt that there were plenty more around the world laying low, waiting for the opportunity to reveal themselves, stronger than before. Steve couldn't let them get to Bucky again.

There were two light knocks on the door of his room, almost inaudible even in the complete silence. Steve looked at the clock on the bedside table. The glowing, red digits read 12:27. It was unusual that anybody would come looking for someone at such a late hour. He didn't answer. Maybe whoever was outside had missed the number and knocked on his door by accident. A few seconds passed, then another two knocks followed the first ones. Steve's self-defense reflexes came alive and he stood from the couch, walking to the bed to get his shield as quietly as possible.

"Steve, you awake?" He heard the familiar voice call softly from the hallway, and his muscles relaxed.

He walked to open the door and saw Natasha standing on his doorstep. She wore a black tank top and dark blue pajama pants indicating that unlike Steve she had tried to sleep, but for some reason there she was, standing in front of him in the middle of the night. "Thought so," she said to herself upon seeing that Steve obviously hadn't been sleeping.

"What are doing up so late?" Steve asked, not stepping away from the door.

"I, uh, couldn't sleep. The bed is just uncomfortable." Natasha tried but regretted it the moment the words had left her mouth. One of the best spies in the world, a master of disguise, and all she could come up with was the stupid lie that the bed was uncomfortable. Truth was, she was worried about Steve.

"Oh. I haven't gotten so far," Steve managed without any traceable emotion in his voice. He was tired and could pass the opportunity of a late night chat with Natasha.

When she saw that Steve wasn't going to let her enter, she asked, "You mind if I come in?", taking a small, uncertain step forward.

"Sure," Steve answered after a few seconds of hesitation. He figured it would be better to avoid the chance of unintentionally hurting her by saying no.

Steve stepped aside and Natasha slipped into the room. By the time Steve locked the door she had already made herself comfortable on his bed, sitting with her legs crossed, resting her hands in her lap. Steve made his way back to the couch and took up his earlier position there.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence between them before Natasha spoke.

"How you holding up?" Her voice was tender and caring. She knew what the answer might be, but thought it would be better for Steve to get some of it off his heart. She knew he was strong, but he shouldn't keep everything for himself when there were people around him who wished to help.

Steve kept his eyes on his feet. He didn't have to look at her to know that concern was etched on her features. For a moment he thought about giving a simple one word answer to let her know he was not in the mood for chatting, but then decided otherwise. Natasha deserved more.

"Before I met Peggy, I had never thought that someone like her would ever be interested in me." His voice was low and steady although Natasha knew it must have been hard talking about her. "I used to go out with Bucky a lot, but he would always get the ladies. There were a couple times when he tried to set me up with the girls but no matter where we went, he was always in the spotlight. Girls usually didn't notice me at all."

"Well, I'm not so surprised Peggy did. You aren't exactly hard on the eye." Natasha smiled, trying to cheer him up a bit.

There had been a few times during their missions together that she caught herself thinking about Steve. She knew it was unprofessional, but when he was close to her she couldn't not notice how handsome he actually was. Hearing that he hadn't had the luck with girls really made Natasha think of what kind of women had lived in the 1940s. Steve might have looked different before the serum, but his manners and morals must have been the same and those were what made him the man he was today. The man he should be proud of.

She could have sworn she saw the slightest of smiles in the corner of Steve's mouth but it was gone in a second.

"She saw far beyond appearances." Steve knew that the serum had improved his physique significantly, but he also knew that Peggy had been a much more decent woman than to just judge a person by their looks.

Natasha shifted to the edge of the bed, setting her feet on the floor. "What was she like?" She asked with honest curiosity.

Steve took a moment to picture Peggy in front of him.

"She was beautiful," but Steve supposed Natasha already knew that, so he continued. "She was a self-confident, smart, independent woman. She was kind, gentle, and caring. She had all the virtues of a _real _woman. She was also courageous, probably the strongest woman I've seen. She never hesitated when it came to pulling the trigger. She always knew how to act in a certain situation, was never short of words, but she never said too much. She saw in me what most other people missed. She _believed _in me. Whenever I felt lost, she was the one that kept me going."

Natasha had always had an idea of what could have been between Steve and Peggy, but he had never really talked about it. Hearing his words now, she realized that Steve loved Peggy much more than she had thought. She wondered what it would be like to love somebody that way, to be loved that way. There was no place for such a thing as love in her life. She knew that growing too attached to someone would make her vulnerable, it would provide her enemies surface on which to attack. She could not allow herself such luxury as it could easily mean the death of her or of her friend. No matter how much she yearned for someone to care about like Steve cared about Peggy, she had given that up long ago. She still hoped though that maybe in another life she would get the chance.

Natasha wanted to say something, but her throat became dry. She felt a sudden urge to cry, something she was unfamiliar with. She had never sympathized so deeply with anyone's sorrow, and it scared her.

For the first time during their conversation Steve looked up to meet her eyes, and his reflected such pain that Natasha had to collect all her strength to not look away.

"I promised her a dance." He paused, hearing his own distant voice echoing in his head. His heart ached with every word. "I promised her a dance, but then I had to leave on a mission and we never had the chance after that. All she wanted was a dance and now she's gone and I failed to keep my promise. It was just a dance. Was it too much to ask?"

He looked at Natasha with pleading eyes, hoping for her to justify his words. She knew there was nothing worthy she could say, so she remained silent and Steve turned his gaze back to his shoes. Natasha had never seen Steve so defenseless and fragile; it broke her heart. She suddenly stood up and walked over to the couch. She stopped right in front of Steve and held out her arm toward him.

"Dance with me."

Steve looked up at her, the pain in his eyes now mixed with confusion.

"Come on." Natasha tried to encourage him with a friendly smile.

Steve was still hesitant but gave her his hand, letting her pull him up from the couch. Without her high-heel shoes there was a significant difference in height between them. Natasha reached up, entwining her fingers behind Steve's neck.

"It's okay," she said softly, sensing that Steve felt uncomfortable with the situation.

Her words seemed to have soothed him as he laid his hands on her waist and they started their slow waltz, moving to the silence around them. Their eyes were locked on each other's, and for the first time Natasha felt an intimacy with Steve that she hadn't felt with anybody before.

"Close your eyes," Natasha whispered and pulled herself up to him, resting her head against his chest.

Steve did as she asked and as soon as the world turned to darkness around him, he was back in 1943 with Peggy. He could see her vermilion dress, her rose red lips, the hazel locks of her hair gently falling onto her shoulder. He could feel her against his body as they were moving to a silent rhythm only the two of them could hear. He let the moment fully take him in and wished that time would stop, keeping him forever there with Peggy.

"Thank you." Natasha heard Steve's whisper. They were two simple words, but it that moment they meant the world to her. For the first time in a long time she felt as though she had done something for someone that mattered. A subtle, soft smile appeared on her face and she closed her eyes too, enjoying the moment they were sharing. A moment they had both desired for a long time.

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><p><strong>To be continued hopefully :) If you could just drop your opinion in the review box, I'd be very very thankful.<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey, everyone! I'm finally here with chapter two of this story. I loved all your reviews on the first one, they gave me a huge momentum to continue. Hopefully, I'll be able to keep up with your expectations! Also, I have to thank my beta, the lovely Scarlett Kingston for raising this story to a whole new level! Without her I'm not sure I'd receive the same feedback I have so far. Your reviews are what keep me going, so please be sure to drop them after reading. Enjoy!  
><strong>

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><p>The flight back to New York was quiet and uneventful. At first Tony was reluctant to lend them his private jet, but after some persuasion from Fury, he finally gave in. Fury reasoned with the fact that Maria Hill was now working for Stark Industries, and the plane would be used on behalf of the company. It wasn't the strongest argument, but it was enough for Tony to not put up a fight. They were all glad he had agreed at last because this way the eight hour flight was much more comfortable and easier to endure.<p>

Coulson was chatting with Maria, asking her about the early experiences at her new job, Fury fell asleep almost immediately after they had taken off, and Natasha was sitting opposite Steve, her face buried in her laptop. Steve assumed she was still working on restoring her covers. He knew it was important for her, so he didn't initiate conversation. They hadn't spoken much after last night; there really wasn't much to say. He had a tough time and Natasha was there to comfort him, like friends would do.

Steve took out his sketchbook that he carried around everywhere he went, and started scribbling absentmindedly. The weather outside had dramatically changed since the day before, but Steve assumed it was an everyday occurrence around the British Isles. The sun had disappeared behind gray clouds, forming an endless blanket that obscured the view of the light blue sky,draining the energy out of the world below. As depressing as it was, something about the dark fluffs drew Steve's eyes, satisfying their hunger for attention.

"Dammit!" At her barely audible voice, he looked up from his sketch to see what she was upset about. Her laptop was still in front of her, but her attention was now focused on the screen of the cell phone she was holding in front of her face.

"What's wrong?" Steve asked.

Natasha lowered her phone to look at him. She didn't realize she had actually voiced her thought. "It's probably nothing." She knew Steve had a lot on his mind and didn't want to disturb him further with her own issues.

"Well, it must be something if it troubles you," Steve pushed.

Natasha's brow furrowed, eyes lowering as she gave a soft exhale. The corner of her mouth twitched.

"Clint's not answering his phone. He hasn't checked in since yesterday to give a status update." She paused, chewing on her words for a moment. Her eyes flicked back up to Steve. "He's called every day so far." Emotional suppression was one of Natasha's stronger suits, however, there were times when it failed her. Now was one instance. He had come to know her well enough to read past her stubborn front and into the subtle signs that all but a few missed. He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat.

"As you said, it's probably nothing," Steve paused for a moment, looking back out the window. "There are plenty of possible reasons why he wouldn't call. He could've infiltrated an enemy group and is just cautious not to blow his cover. It's even possible that there's no reception where he is."

Natasha raised an eyebrow. "Is there any place with no reception anymore?" She could pretty much rule out the possibility of Steve's latter suggestion, although she wasn't sure if he really meant it or not.

Steve lowered his eyes in embarrassment for even suggesting such a thing. Back in the 1940s, telecommunication networks weren't as widely spread, but in the age of information society, worldwide coverage was more than just an expectation: it was a demand. He realized that by ruling out one of the two possibilities he had proposed, the "plenty" that he claimed earlier was a bit of an exaggeration.

The silence that began to consume them was sticky and uncomfortable. Natasha closed her laptop, laying it on the table as she leaned over towards Steve. "So, what you drawing?"

"Oh, nothing, really." Steve reached up with one hand to rub the back of his neck. His fingers of the other hand twiddled on the tabletop as he watched Natasha examine his sketch.

"Are you kidding me? Steve, this is amazing." Natasha's voice was full of surprise and astonishment. She reached out and took Steve's sketch book, turning it toward her to take a better look.

The picture showed the round shape of a window on the jet. Inside the frames were the delicate puffs of gray clouds, from the perspective of a person looking through the glass. The image was so vivid that if colored, Natasha could easily believe it was a photograph.

"I never knew you were this talented," she said appreciatively, handing Steve back his book.

He shrugged. "This is just a hobby of mine. I never focused on developing my skills, I just take a pen and draw whatever inspires me." He had never considered himself an artist. Drawing, for him, meant a way to express feelings that he couldn't put into words. It was something that he could hide behind whenever he wanted to disappear from the world.

"Inspires you, huh?" Natasha flashed a seductive, playful smile. "So, you want to draw me like one of your French girls?"

Confusion flashed across Steve's face for a moment but he quickly recovered.

"Titanic," he stated, as the reference popped in.

"Oh, looks like someone's been doing their homework," Natasha kept teasing. She was enjoying the conversation. "So, what do you think, was there enough space on the plank for both of them?"

Steve tried to recall the scene she was referring to. He had a hard time doing so, as by the end of the film he wasn't paying much attention to details. "I'm not a physicist, so I don't really know. But I suppose dramatically they made the right choice."

"How diplomatic," Natasha snorted, rolling her eyes. "Well, they could've survived both, so in my opinion the filmmakers made the wrong choice. I like stories better where people make rational decisions, at least compared to the given situation. That's what keeps it real, that's how we can relate to it. Seeing that Jack could have made it too had he just climbed up next to Rose, only makes his death stupid, not dramatic."

"I'd rather not argue about it. I didn't like the movie anyway, so it wouldn't have made a difference either way," Steve explained, hoping they could end the debate over Titanic. He had been trying to catch up with modern films, but he found most of their plots questionable, to say the least.

"I didn't like it, either. At least we can agree on that one." She smiled and leaned back in her seat. She took her laptop back into her hands, but before fully returning to what she had been doing earlier, she added. "You might want to add some colors, though."

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><p>Brock Rumlow slowly opened his eyes, but the blinding brightness that met them seared and smarted. His eyelids pinched shut, encasing his vision in a darker gray light. He tried again. The white light was just as intense and painful the second time round as the first, but he pushed through it and soon his surroundings started to take shape. His head throbbed, the glaring blaze of the light doing nothing to ease his discomfort, which made it hard to process his environment. He had no idea where he was or what time it could be; he only sensed that he was laying on his back. He wanted to sit up, but his hands and legs wouldn't move. He raised his head what little he could, the motion accompanied by overwhelming dizziness and a feeling as if a hundred knives were stabbing his brain at the same time. He saw his wrists and ankles were tied to the piece of metal he was laying on. He couldn't make much sense of the situation. After helplessly trying to free himself, he laid his head back down and tried hard to resist the urge to vomit.<p>

The squeal of a door opening grated against his ears, causing him to shudder. The faint noise of voices, two men's, became audible. They were discussing something, but exactly what he couldn't tell.

The conversation stopped and a shadow loomed over him. It blocked the bright light, easing the pounding pulse in his head slightly. "How are you feeling, Mr. Rumlow?" It asked. The tone was cruel and stern.

"Where am I?" he asked. His faint voice was distant and unfamiliar, as if it wasn't him speaking.

"You may experience slight disorientation. It is only a mixed side-effect of the operations you have undergone and the sedatives we gave you afterwards. It should soon wear off," the same voice answered.

"Where am I?" Rumlow repeated, raising his voice and turning his head in the direction he assumed his captors were. He squinted, seeing one man next to the wall, while the other, now standing a few feet away from him, was beside a table with numerous bottles of different medications on it. They were both wearing the same kind of medical uniform. Doctors? He couldn't tell. His head ached. He clenched his teeth.

Both men were tall, almost the same height, only the one at the door was a bit taller than his partner. The only thing Rumlow could tell one from the other, beside the slight difference in height, was their hair color. While the taller man's hair was dark, Brock wasn't sure if brown or black, the shorter was blond. His vision hadn't cleared enough to be able to make out the details of the men's faces from that distance, but he could tell their skin was slightly tanned.

Neither of the men answered his question. Rumlow rolled his head back to the center and closed his eyes, swallowing. His thinking was muddied and foggy, but he knew better than to repeat it a third time. If they didn't want to answer, there was no point in pushing. "What happened?" he asked instead.

"You have suffered severe injuries during the destruction of the Triskelion. Almost as much as 80% of your body was covered in third-degree burns. We had to replace the damaged skin. You've been in a coma for almost two months. You're lucky to have survived," the taller who had been silent so far, now answered.

At the mention of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, images flashed before his eyes. A black man. Sam. He had been fighting him when there had been a deafening thunderclap. He remembered the damaged helicarrier crashing into the building. It was hard to place it in time, but he could still feel the heat of the detonation behind him as he desperately made his way toward the windows, clinging into the slightest chance of his own survival. There was an instant of sharp, grueling pain, and then . . . darkness. His next memory was the one he had now, waking up in this room with his terrible headache. Rumlow assumed there was another meaning of _lucky _other than what he knew, because at that very moment he wasn't sure whether he should be thankful for being alive.

The blond picked up a syringe from the table and filled it with some liquid Rumlow didn't recognize. He saw the medic walking towards him with the fluid filled cylinder and began to tense. He felt the cold steel bite his skin and the drug being forced into his veins.

"What was that?" Rumlow asked, but his tongue felt thick and heavy. Again, he received no answer. The dizziness returned and his vision began to swim. He shut his eyes to avoid disorientation. His head hurt. He let out a groan, pulling at the straps around his wrists and ankles. "Why am I restrained?"

"It's just a precaution we had to take. We couldn't risk the chance of you trying to escape." The dark-haired man answered. He hadn't moved since they came in.

Escape? Rumlow felt an urge to laugh at the idea. He wasn't even sure he could stand let alone fight his way through a possibly overpowered opposition.

"Let me go." Rumlow demanded, but the slight slur in his speech made for an unconvincing order. He didn't know if it was an effect of the liquid he had been injected with or not, but he soon realized his heart had stopped pounding in his head. His vision was still off and some of the noises in the room made him cringe, but he felt different. Whether or not it was good or bad, he was undecided.

"I'm afraid we can't do that," the one who injected him answered.

He gave a sharp, frustrated tug at his restraints. "Why am I alive? What do you want from me?" Rumlow felt more like a prisoner than a guest. He kept fighting against the leather bands tying him to the table. He had always been the one in control and the idea of powerlessness chaffed him.

"We have plans for you, Mr. Rumlow. You'll soon be a very precious member of our team," the blonde answered. Rumlow's sight was clearer. That man was in charge. His stance, his voice.

"Wait, what plans? What team? I demand you tell me!"

Rumlow's raised voice began to reverberate off the walls as he struggled vigorously against the leather restraints, but without any success.

The door of the room opened once again and a third man entered. The two, who had already been in the room, immediately stood at attention. Still he pulled at the straps.

"You're in New Jersey, Mr. Rumlow," the man said. The voice was somewhat familiar, but Rumlow couldn't recall where he had heard it. "And once you have recovered, you'll play an important role in Hydra's takeover of the US Government and then the whole world."

_Hydra_. In that moment it all became clear to him. He turned his head. Upon seeing the face standing at the door his muscles froze. It wasn't a coincidence that he recognized the voice. The problem was that he was supposed to be dead since 1943.

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><p>Natasha headed straight home from the airport. After the destruction of S.H.I.E.L.D. a few months back she thought it would be wiser to move away from Washington D.C. The first and most obvious choice was New York City because that way she could still be around in case the Avengers needed her.<p>

When the plane landed Steve had asked her if she wanted to grab something to eat, but she had kindly refused. She could definitely use a bite of something, she just wasn't keen on company. Not that she had any problem with Steve's company. On the contrary, lately Natasha had quite been enjoying being around him. They could always joke around, make each other laugh, and that meant a lot to Natasha. She could just be herself. She had to admit they could both use some mood enhancement after the events of the past few days, but she felt tired from the flight which was long enough in itself, and the fact that Clint hadn't called her didn't ease her mind either.

She entered her apartment at 6:53 pm. It was spacious, but was far from the most luxurious places on the Upper East Side. The living room with an open kitchen, the separate bedroom and bathroom, they suited her needs perfectly. Sometimes there were days, even weeks, when she was away on a mission and wouldn't come home at all, so she didn't feel like she needed anything extravagant. Stylish, modern white wood furniture and a black leather couch served as decoration, which made it impossible to tell the owner's Russian origins.

Natasha clicked on the light and walked to the fridge, throwing her jacket on the counter along the way. She found a pizza in the freezer and decided to go with that, as she didn't feel like eating anything that would require more than fifteen minutes to prepare. She placed the box of pizza next to her jacket and turned to preheat the oven. While she waited for it to reach the desired temperature, she checked her phone again, hoping maybe to receive a text from Clint. Or for that matter anything to prove that he was alive. Still nothing. The ominous thoughts residing in the back of her mind grew stronger. Sighing, she set her phone on the counter.

She made her way into the bathroom and washed her face with cool water. She needed the refreshing sensation to clear her head. Natasha kept telling herself that Clint could take care of himself, but after the Loki-incident in New York a couple years back, it became obvious that even the mighty Avengers weren't invincible.

She went back to the kitchen and put the pizza into the oven. Even the fifteen minutes it needed to cook felt like too much for Natasha at that point, but she supposed it was the best she could get. Of course, there was always a jar of peanut butter around, but she kept it for less gloomy occasions.

While she waited for the pizza to heat up, she searched for some kind of alcohol in the cabinet in the living room. There wasn't a wide selection to choose from. She didn't consider herself a hard drinker; only a couple bottles stood behind the glass, a few different wines and a bottle of Russian vodka. They were mostly unopened, and in the end she chose not to damage her brain any further and gave up on the idea of getting drunk. It just wasn't like her.

Instead, she dropped down onto her couch and reached for the remote. She switched on the TV, and made up her mind to stick with the first show that was on. She could care less about the program, its sole purpose at the moment was to distract her mind from reality. There was a talk show on air that was sufficient enough for Natasha's needs, and she only realized that quarter of an hour had passed when the oven beeped in the kitchen, letting her know, the pizza was ready. She cut it into four equal slices and returned to the talk show.

She had only swallowed the second bite when she realized her appetite had gone. She needed to get out of the apartment. Steve always told her that he would go on a run whenever he needed to clear his head. She tossed aside the rest of the pizza and went to look for her sneakers.

As she stepped outside, she shivered and zipped up her sweatshirt. Although the streets were now lit by the yellow glow of street lamps, it didn't mean that they were any less alive than during daylight. There were still plenty of New Yorkers in the city at that hour, either going home after a hard day at work, or on their way to a less fortunate night shift. Seeing them, Natasha often wished she could trade places with them just for a day. She didn't wait for these thoughts to occupy her mind this time, and headed off toward Central Park.

She jogged through streets that weren't too crowded, drinking in the fresh night air. She finally managed to clear her head and just enjoy the pleasant buzz of the city. She took several turns before she finally reached 5th Avenue, making the route longer on purpose.

She crossed the park toward Strawberry Fields, then turned left on Central Park West. She wondered why she hadn't gone running that often. Although New York City was always alive, especially at night, there was something peaceful about it, something that helped Natasha forget all her troubles.

Thoughts, both pleasant and unpleasant, faded from her mind as she made her way back toward the East River. From the corner of her eyes Natasha though she saw a red and blue figure in the sky above for a second, but when she turned her head, there was nothing there. Only an empty night sky. The only evidence proving that she wasn't imagining it, was the thin white string, hanging from a ledge about ten stories above her. She shook her head and turned.

Natasha ran without a preplanned destination and ended up on the Bobby Wagner Walk near Queensboro Bridge. She was breathing heavily after the distance she had covered, but knew that she could carry on if she wanted to. She saw an empty bench nearby and headed toward it. She drew in deep breaths, letting the waterside air fill her lungs. It was cool and fresh. She watched the tramway cars comfortably float over the river to Roosevelt Island, like they had all the time in the world. She saw people pass by, and heard their lighthearted chatters.

Children played cheerfully, not stopping for as much as a single moment to think about school next morning. Natasha put up no resistance and let the atmosphere absorb her. She had almost forgotten was it was like to be so relaxed. Every individual sound around her soon melted into one, and she was floating gently in an infinite ocean of stillness and calm.

By the time Natasha arrived back at her apartment, the pizza was stone cold. She placed it in the microwave and went to take a shower until it had reheated. The run had drained a fair amount of her energy, so the steaming hot water was like a reviving potion as it ran over and down her skin. When she stepped out of the shower, a sudden wave of drowsiness overwhelmed her. She quickly rubbed her skin dry and dressed herself in a thin pair of night pants and an old, worn t-shirt, then making her way out to the kitchen. She pulled open the microwave door and took out the food. With pizza in one hand, she glanced at the clock on the wall. She saw she had been gone a little more than an hour. She picked up her cell phone. She was met with an empty screen. No missed calls, no incoming text messages.

She stood silently, staring at her phone. She had stopped chewing. The only noise in the room was the ticking of the clock and the disquieted thumping of her heart. No matter what Steve had told her, she could feel that something wasn't right. Over the years, Natasha had learned to trust her instincts, and this time they were telling her that whatever trouble Clint had gotten into, he needed her help. She felt tired, and needed a sleep, but next morning she was going after him. She would ask Steve to go with her to better their chances.

There was a possibility of course, that he had his own problems to deal with and wouldn't have neither the time nor the will to help her. But either way, she promised herself that she would do everything in her power to find Clint. She quickly finished her pizza, tossing the paper plate into the trash and wandered towards her bedroom. She laid her head on the pillow, unable to fight her tiredness, and was soon swallowed by the infinite darkness of an empty, dreamless slumber.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi, everyone, I know it's been a while, but here's chapter 3 at last. But first. THREE reviews on the last chapter? Compared to the 13 I've received on the first so far, this is just not good enough. You can do way better than just 3. :) Anyway, I must say a huge thank you to all of you who did review. You rock! And once again, I have to thank my wonderful beta, Scarlett Kingston for helping me with the story. I hope you will all like it. Enjoy!**

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><p>Steve asked the taxi driver to drop him off a few blocks from his apartment. He wasn't afraid of people knowing his address nor was he embarrassed about it. He only felt like taking a short walk, just to stretch his legs a bit after the long ride. He would often stroll around the neighborhood whenever he had the time. Not only was it relaxing, but on many occasions it provided Steve with inspiration required to draw. What ended up on the paper didn't have to be anything out of the ordinary. He was able to grab the essence of the most everyday scenes on the streets, be it a man reading a newspaper on a bench, or the rustling leaves around a naked tree.<p>

Steve glanced at his watch. It was nearing eleven o'clock. He looked out the side window to the empty streets. Most of the neighborhood had retired into the comfortable warmth of their homes, and with good reason. The temperature wasn't as friendly as it would have been on a summer night. One of the reasons why he had decided to live in the suburban part of D.C. rather than other places was because of the atmosphere of the community. He wasn't thrust into the limelight. People didn't care whether or not Captain America lived on their block. Actually, he was certain most people, at least before the S.H.I.E.L.D. fiasco, had no idea where he lived.

The street lights that flashed by the window as they drove slowed their progression and he felt the vehicle's speed decrease. They pulled over at a small park. When Steve paid for the ride he tipped the elderly driver generously, who nodded his head toward the soldier in appreciation. As he watched the yellow cab fade away in the distance he wondered if Matt, Steve had learned his name on the way, had recognized him as Captain America. His shield must have given him away, but the man hadn't said a word about it. Steve appreciated the respect. He was grateful for having an utterly average ride without having to talk about his past or the Avengers. Unlike Tony Stark, Steve Rogers wasn't very keen on being in the spotlight.

He threw his bag over his shoulder and grabbing his shield, he headed toward his apartment block. It was about a ten minute walk, not too long, but long enough for his mind to wander. He crossed the street and began to stroll down the sidewalk, thinking as he went about nothing in particular. It smelled fresh outside. It had rained earlier in the day and now the clouds no longer covered the sky. The morning would be stingingly chilled. Further down the road, he began to shiver. It was quite a bit colder than in summer. His coat zipped up, a tinny, metallic noise bursting out. The noise of the zipper and the crinkle of his windbreaker were loud as they rang into the nighttime air which was odd. Steve glanced around. There really was no one out tonight, there weren't even any cars driving down the street. They were all huddled next to the curb, their lights dark and cold.

He walked past the metal fence that surrounded the park. The swings squealed on their hinges as the wind blew them back and forth and the remaining yellow leaves on the trees crackled and clapped. Steve shivered again and lowered his head, watching his footfall. Even the quiet noise of his steps were audible on the wet pavement. A chill ran down his spine, the back of his neck felt icy, almost a burning, freezing sensation. His pace quickened.

Only when he reached his apartment block did Steve realize that he had walked almost twice as fast as he normally would. He ascended the stairs, pulling out his key from his pocket. Before placing it in the lock he looked behind him, scanning the silent street. He couldn't help but feel as if a veil had been thrown over it. Shaking his head, he thrust the key into the keyhole, but before he could firmly grip the handle he felt the barrel of a gun pressed firmly against his back. Steve exhaled deeply and stilled. His jaw clenched. It wasn't the first time he had been snuck up on. But whoever it was, he had chosen the wrong person to mess with.

Steve began to shift his weight to the left, turning his head in attempt to glance behind.

"Don't even think about it."

The muscles of his back and shoulders stiffened. His blood froze and his arm dropped beside his body as he put the realization into words, "Bucky."

"One move and I'll pull the trigger." His voice was haggard but stern and cold. Although Steve could identify the voice as Bucky's, it still had that unfamiliar edge to it.

"I know you wouldn't," Steve calmly said. He was hoping he could convince his friend, make him somehow snap out of the trance he had been put into.

Bucky didn't answer. Good or bad, Steve couldn't tell, but maybe his words were reaching his friend. He didn't want the chance slip away, so he quickly added, "This isn't who you are, Bucky. You need to remember. It's all in there, you just have to dig it up."

Steve felt the pressure of the gun lighten for a second before it was pushed against him twice as hard as previously. A twinge of pain ran across his skin. If there had been a spark of doubt in Bucky for the briefest of moments, it was gone already.

"Don't come looking for me ever again, or I swear to god, I will kill you. You and your friend both." So they had been on the right track, Steve realized. Otherwise how would Bucky know about Sam? They had been so close, all along.

"Please, let me help you," Steve pleaded. Bucky was right there behind him. _With_ him. There mightn't be another opportunity. He had to make the most of it.

"I don't need anybody's help. I'm telling you one last time. Stay _away_."

Before Steve had the chance to utter any reply, the gun was pulled away from him and he knew that it was over. He turned around, only to see the empty street again. He drove his gaze from block to block, hoping to catch a glance of his former friend. It was too late. Bucky had already vanished, once again.

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><p>Natasha's eyes shot open the very moment the first rays of the morning sun fluttered over her skin. She blinked a few times, letting her vision adjust, but then pushed the covers aside and sat up. She ran a hand through her tousled hair and reached for her phone on the bedside table. Her finger swiped hastily across its surface. Still nothing. It had almost been another eight hours. Natasha bit her lip. If Clint had had the opportunity, he would have already called her. Even a simple 'I'm OK' message would have done it, but her screen shone blank. Lowering her phone, her eyes glazing over, many thoughts began to overwhelm her. She needed to find him, so why did it feel like she was procrastinating? Was she . . . fearful of what truth may be? Clint needed help though, if it wasn't already too late. But what if it was? What would she do if he - . . . She quickly shook her head to get rid of the latter thought. She set her phone down on the bed.<p>

Giving a soft sigh and standing up, Natasha pulled out clothing from her wardrobe, a simple, red, long sleeve top and navy blue jeans. She unplugged her laptop from the wall and made her way out towards the dining table. She took a deep breath to collect her thoughts. She replayed every conversation with Clint from the past week, hoping to find a lead she could begin with. Last time when Clint had called, he said he was in Zürich. He had told her he rented a suite in Hotel Seehof. She would start there, then slowly make her way around the city, looking for anything that seemed out of place. She typed in the name of the hotel in her browser. The building itself was average, it didn't call much attention to itself, maybe apart from its light red color. It was close to the city center, a good place to stay if you wanted to lay low. _Smart_, Natasha thought with a lopsided smirk.

She scribbled down the address on a piece of paper and shut her laptop. There was still much more to know and the pangs of uncertainty made her heart thump loudly against her chest, but she wouldn't be able to uncover anything else until she arrived in Zürich. There was only one thing left. Calling Steve. She knew it would've been foolish to attempt a rescue mission on her own. Especially this one. Clint was well trained, but if whatever he had gotten himself into was too much for him to handle alone, there was no way she could. She needed backup. Though Steve was likely to still be in a mourning state and might not wished to be bothered by her problems, there was no one else to which she knew to turn. He was her partner and, more importantly, her friend. Natasha's finger hovered over the dial button. No. She wouldn't call him. She would go over to his apartment and ask him in person. The chances of his accepting when she was with him were higher than just a voice over a phone, though he'd be likely to help no matter what. At least this way, she could show him how much this case truly weighed on her mind.

She spent the next fifteen minutes hurriedly getting ready for the day and packing a worn dufflebag, only throwing the necessary items into it. While brushing her teeth, she glanced at the traffic report for the morning. Not bad, but not great either. The car ride to Washington D.C. was around four hours long, but she could make it in three as long as the city police weren't too active . . . or having a bad day. There was a black Corvette Stingray in front of her apartment for that. Deciding she would grab something to eat at a drive thru on the way, Natasha zipped her bag and hurried out of her apartment.

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><p>When Steve went on his usual run in the morning, he took a longer route. Bucky's visit last night weighed heavily on his mind, so much so that it formed creases in his brow. He was angry at himself for not seizing the opportunity differently when it came. That anger lead him as he ran as fast as he could, testing his limits. His heart was pounding against his chest, louder than gunshots. He had made a promise to save him. Was he going to fail at this one, too? He clenched his teeth and increased the tempo.<p>

Although he had traveled a significantly longer distance, the time taken to return home took little over ten minutes. After arriving upstairs, he shut the door to his apartment, his head thumping softly on the wood as he leaned back against it. He cast a quick glance at the clock on the wall; he was already late. Pushing himself off the door, he stripped off his shirt, tossing it by the washer on the way to the shower. He quickly washed off the sweat and dust, scrubbing his scalp and body, and then got dressed in his usual outfit. Khaki pants, white t-shirt, blue jacket. Both Natasha and Sam had tried to talk him into updating his wardrobe, and he even did to some extent. He had bought a pair of Vans. But there were these modern skin tight jeans and different kinds of distasteful shirts that Steve found rather repelling. He wanted to stick with more ordinary and mature clothing.

Sam had already been waiting for Steve when his motorcycle rolled in front of the café. After the Project Insight accident, Sam and he had become quite good friends. They were both soldiers sharing similar experience. This gave Steve some comfort, knowing that he could talk freely about his past and have it understood without the need to explain every little detail. They would both start the morning with a run, usually separate, and then breakfast afterwards at the same café. Sometimes they would share different moments of their lives, other times they merely sat in each others' company in a mutual understanding. After they had been on the road for the past months looking for Bucky, it was nice to get back to that routine.

"Hey, man," Sam greeted with a wide grin when Steve stepped inside. He stood from his chair to shake hands with his friend.

"Hi, Sam," Steve replied and the two of them took their seats across the table.

"What took so long? You're supposed to run a mile in fifteen seconds and I been sitting here for like ten minutes, already. Usually it's me to arrive later, what happened?" Sam's tone was light, not suspecting anything behind the situation. Before Steve could answer a waitress arrived at their table.

"Morning, boys. What can I get you today?" Her nametag read _Kate_. She was always the one to serve Steve and Sam whenever they visited the café.

"Just the usual," Steve answered. He raised his eyebrows toward Sam who nodded in affirmation.

"Alright. I'll have that for you shortly," Kate smiled and left to get their orders. Steve watched her until he was sure she was out of earshot before turning back to Sam.

"Last night Bucky surprised me at my apartment."

The smile immediately disappeared from Sam's face and was replaced by a deep concern. He leaned in, his voice now serious as he asked, "What do you mean he _surprised_ you at your apartment? He knocked on your door or what? Don't tell me he shot through your wall again 'cause that be a real shame, man."

"He pointed a gun at my back before I could even step inside the building." Steve explained, his eyes fixed on the glass of ice water in front of him, small frigid droplets condensing on the outside.

"After all that time we been tryin' to find him, he just shows up at your door saying what exactly?" Regarding Sam's earlier involvement with the Winter Soldier, he was as concerned about Bucky as Steve was.

"He told me to stop going after him."

"Wait, so you mean to tell me that he had known we were following him all along?" As soon as Sam put the picture together, his features drew into an annoyed frown.

"It seems so." Steve nodded. "And now it looks like he's had enough."

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but then he saw Kate approaching their table. She was carrying a tray that held two plates in her right hand, one with pancakes on it, the other with french toast. In the left she was holding a pitcher of orange juice. It was normal to only serve single glasses of a drink in a café, but having come so frequently to this particular one, they just gave them a pitcher. They always finished it anyways.

"Here you go," she said smiling. As she placed the food in front of them, Kate asked if they needed anything else. Both men said no thank you and that this was perfect. She nodded and left to serve other tables.

"So, he told you that we quit following him," Sam switched back to their previous topic.

"Yeah," Steve sighed and leaned back in his chair. Sam could hear the painful acceptance in his tone.

"So we don't." Sam simply stated. He picked up the fork and knife and began to cut into his food. "He needs help. Our help."

"He said he'd kill us both. If it was only me, I wouldn't care; it would be worth trying. But I can't risk your life, Sam. This isn't your fight, it never was." Steve grabbed the napkin and unfolded it, placing it on his lap as he began to eat.

Sam swallowed the bite of pancake that filled his mouth. "Like hell it isn't." He raised his voice, still chewing somewhat. "That son of a bitch tore my wings. He nearly killed me." He took a swig of the orange juice and returned back to his food.

Steve shot a furious glance toward Sam. "That _'son of a bitch'_ is still my friend."

"No, right now, he isn't," Sam continued, pointing his fork at Steve. "He threatened to kill you, and that ain't something friends do." He didn't want to argue with his friend, but wasn't going to back down. There was a brief moment of silence as the two men ate.

"The Bucky I knew is still in there," Steve thought out loud. He looked to Sam. "He wouldn't kill me. He'd had the chance before, but didn't do it." He had already made up his mind, he just wanted Sam to understand.

"Yeah, but he couldn't recall he used to play catch with you in your backyard, either." Sam stuck another bite of pancake into his mouth, waiting for Steve to respond.

"We already tried to make him remember, but he refused to let us. Whatever's going on in his head right now, he's going to have to deal with it alone." Steve was adamant. Sam needed to realize there was not an outcome of this conversation where he could persuade him.

"If that's what you think you need to do, I'm with you, man." Sam spoke calmly. It was ultimately up to Steve to make a choice. And it seemed like he had.

"It is." Steve confirmed. He took another bite of his french toast. He understood why Sam wasn't keen on the idea of leaving Bucky out in the open, alone, but he believed it was the best - and likely only - thing they could do at the moment.

Sam's gaze lingered on Steve, scanning his look. The decision was final. "Alright, then. I seriously hope he doesn't prove you wrong though." He took another drink of the orange juice.

Strained silence choked whatever pleasent conversation they could've had as they finished their breakfast. There was nothing left to say, both of them had made their point clear. They could only hope that Bucky was somehow going to find his way back home, eventually.

"I've been wanting to ask you something," Sam said after a good deal of silence. He pushed his empty plate forward, leaning back in his seat.

"What is it?" Steve asked. The tension of the earlier conversation had finally settled, having returned to the usual friendly manner.

"It's about the Avengers," Sam offered a hint and a grin, as Steve took another mouthful.

"What about 'em?" Steve raised his eyebrows as he chewed, clueless.

"Well, I was thinking that we been working together for quite some time now and," Sam paused for a second to find the right words. "Well, maybe there's a chance I could join the team?"

Steve didn't look as surprised as he actually was. He hadn't really been thinking about the Avengers lately, so Sam's suggestion hadn't crossed his mind yet. Steve placed his fork and knife on his now empty plate, grabbing the napkin and wiping the corners of his mouth. "I don't know Sam, it's not up to me. Besides, you don't have your wings anymore, remember?" He crumpled the paper-thin cloth and set it on the table surface.

"Oh, come on, man. Stark could probably make another one of those. Maybe even improve it. Put a little design to it. I'm sure you could say a word or two for me."

Steve thought about what Sam said, as he finished off the pitcher of orange juice. "Yeah, I suppose I could." The idea itself was quite reasonable. The Avengers could definitely use another man in the air. It would provide with much more creativity during fights in the future.

"Now, we're talkin'!" Sam's grin widened, his eyes flickering with excitement, as he reached across the table giving Steve a hard clap on the arm. The man let out a small chuckle. Ever since he had retired, Sam had missed being in the middle of the action and now he had an opportunity to get back in, _and _on the side of Captain America.

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><p>"Hi, Cap. What's up?" Tony's voice was light and negligent, like usual. He had a rough start with Steve, but had managed to bury the hatchet as they learned how to work as a team.<p>

"Hey, Stark," Steve said as he walked up the stairs to his apartment. He dialed Tony's number as soon as he had gotten home from the café. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"You're not. Go ahead."

"I would like to ask you a favor. Two, really." Steve sounded hesitant, afraid of what the reaction might be. He turned the key in the door and swung it open.

"Why do I have the feeling that I'm not going to like what follows?" Whenever Tony was asked a favor, it was either about his money or his influence. Still, Steve was his teammate, he couldn't turn him down right away.

"You remember Sam Wilson?" Steve asked as he closed the door.

"The eagle guy?"

"Falcon," he corrected. He wasn't surprised at Tony's behavior. He was getting used to his nonchalance.

"Yeah. Falcon. Right. You two did a pretty good job demolishing the Triskelion. Along with the three helicarriers equipped with my high-tech devices." The sarcasm was clear to Steve, but he didn't give much thought to it.

"If we hadn't done that, you'd be dead right now."

"Oh right . . . I keep forgetting. Anyway, what can I do for you?" Tony cut to the chase. He was obviously getting tired of their little conversation. Whether it was because of him or something else, Steve couldn't tell.

"Sam's wings were destroyed during the fight. I was thinking that maybe you could make him a pair of new ones?"

"And I'd do it because…?" Tony trailed off, waiting for Steve to serve with a plausible explanation.

Steve shook his head, smiling slightly as he looked out the window. "I don't know, because we might need him next time when Loki decides to send an alien army against Earth, or worse."

There was a short pause on the other end of the line while Tony was considering the request. "Alright, listen, I'll think about it and I'll call your buddy, just text me his number. But right now, I gotta go. I was summoned by the N.S.A. regarding a matter involving Iron Man. They had tried to pull this stunt a while back, but it didn't work." Tony gave a slight snort. "I guess they're giving it another shot. Anyway, the meeting's been on for about . . . half an hour now. It's probably time I headed over, don't wanna be _too_ late. Anyway, I'll catch you later, Cap." With that, Tony hung up.

Steve had no idea what kind of an affair Tony could have with national security, though it would likely end up on the news later. At least he hadn't given an outright "no" to his request, Steve thought as he summed up the call. He tossed his coat onto the back of his couch when he heard three hard knocks on his door. When he opened it he was met with the familiar scarlet locks standing on the doorstep.

"Nat." He said, surprised to see the spy. He didn't remember hearing or seeing her car pull up in front of the building.

"Hi, Steve. How do you feel about a trip to Zürich?"

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><p><strong>Please drop down a review, it really means A LOT to me. :) To be continued soon hopefully, and don't worry, from now on, it's gonna be all about Steve x Natasha. Buckle up. ;)<br>**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey, you guys! I am very sorry I hadn't been able to post until now. I'm having my finals this month and they pretty much take up all my time. I'm not sure when I'm going to have the time to get down to the next chapter, but I'll be trying to get it done as soon as possible. For now, enjoy this one! As always, half the credit goes to Scarlett Kingston, my amazing beta. She did a fair amount of the neat stuff you can see in here. Please drop a review, they mean a lot to me! :)**

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><p>Steve dropped down on the couch in his living room. He hadn't expect Natasha to visit so soon - or at all for that matter - but he was glad to see her again. After she had said goodbye at Fury's "burial" they hadn't been in touch for almost four months and he only realized how much he had missed her when they met again the day before, at Peggy's funeral. He had wondered if there was a reason to the timing. Right when a woman who he felt deep affection for left him forever, another one entered his life again. Because he <em>did<em> feel affection for Natasha, he would have been lying to himself had he denied it. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Or maybe an act of God. He would have liked to believe in the latter. Steve had been awake in this new world for a couple of years now and one thing he had noticed had changed most was that people had forgotten to have faith. Something he couldn't even imagine living without.

Faith in a higher power was what made him think that Natasha's reappearance was an indication that it was time to let go of Peggy, that maybe he should focus on what he had instead of what he didn't anymore. To not rule out the possibility that another woman could make him feel the way Peggy did. All he had to do was open his eyes and read what was right in front of him.

It hadn't been a full day since Natasha and he had parted again and he had begun to miss her presence already, though he would never admit it to anyone else. He enjoyed being around her. He wasn't exactly sure what that meant. All he was sure of was the way she made him smile with her teasing with the game they played where she attempted to set him up with practically every woman she knew. She made him forget the weight of the world that hung about his neck, reminded him that there was life outside the battlefield. Life that was worth living as long as she was part of it.

His eyes followed her as she made her way across the room to stand in front of him. At first he hadn't known what to make of her question. Switzerland? He hadn't considered the two of them close enough to take a random trip together merely for fun, as tempting as the thought happened to be. His lips pressed firmly together as he guessed her motive, his head nodding in conclusion as she told him.

There was still no word from Clint. She was concerned. She had find out what happened. She expounded what details she had, all of which appeared to be too few for Steve's liking. He knew what it was like to have a friend to look after, but with the amount of intelligence on Clint's whereabouts he was wary of her plan.

"So the only hard evidence you've got is the address to the hotel he was staying at?" Steve folded his arms across his chest, raising his eyebrows after she had finished. Back in his days with the army, they only carried out operations with thoroughly constructed action strategies. They were ordered to keep the improvisation rate as low as possible. When he had been recruited by S.H.I.E.L.D. he'd noted with deep satisfaction that the organization held the same basic principles that he had been used to. Natasha's offer, on the other hand, proposed the exact opposite. He knew she leaned more towards the rebellious side, which was somewhat understandable regarding her area of expertise. Still, it was something he couldn't quite relate to.

"I know it's not the most promising lead. But at least it's a lead."

"Not the most promising?" He sat forward and looked hard into her face. "Okay, let's say we get to the hotel. Then what?" His unconcealed skepticism hit her in the chest. Her jaw clenched slightly and she swallowed. She was used to people questioning her and had learned to deal with trust issues, but coming from Steve, those words found their way much deeper.

There was a lull in conversation as the two stared at one another. She cocked her head, taking a slight intake of air and answered, "Then we go and find Clint."

Steve snorted and shook his head. As if it were that easy. No one in their right mind would truly believe that.

Although Steve wasn't familiar with the full history of Clint and Natasha, he knew they were close. He understood that she wanted to help him, but he also felt like she was acting on impulse rather than rationality.

"Nat, don't be stupid. You know I'm always here for you if you need help, but you're just asking to get in trouble with this plan. With so many unknown variables, I'm not sure we can pull this off. We need a better structured plan." He tried to keep the annoyed tone out of his voice. He didn't want his words to come off as rejecting. He wasn't going to turn his back on her, but wasn't going to jump head first into something with not even the slightest glimpse of the way out.

"Steve," she huffed, shifting her weight, "I have my own doubts about this as well. It's _definitely _ not the most favorable situation by any means. So much could go wrong. But we don't have the luxury of time. If we want to make a move, we've got to do it now!" She nervously spun her phone between her fingers.

Steve knew that attempting this mission would be reckless. Entering enemy territory nearly blind of all facts did not bode well. He stood from the couch and walked towards her. She stayed firmly rooted to her spot.

His eyes quickly glanced at his phone on the counter. "We should probably call Tony. I'm sure he could-,"

"Steve, please don't try to dissuade me. My mind is made. I know _damn well_ what the chances are, but I can't sit idle any longer knowing that Clint could be dead!" There. She'd said it. Her hand clenched around her phone. Her breathing became shallow and the faintest of colors flushed the skin of her face. Steve put his hands on his hips.

Natasha continued, her voice quieter. "This whole situation is messed up, but I didn't come all the way to your apartment only to listen to you judge me, I'm here to ask for your help." Her arms fell next to her body. She was standing close enough for Steve to see the determination and near panic in her eyes as she spoke.

Steve was the one person in the world Natasha could always count on, no matter what. Whenever danger stared her in the face, he was there in a blink of an eye to help her. Her knight in shining armor. She couldn't tell when exactly it happened, but somewhere along the way she had started to take him for granted. She didn't need to look over her shoulder to know he was there. He always was. And yet when she _was_ asking for help, he hesitated. Seeing his uncertainty, she wondered which would hurt more: being rejected or being rejected by Steve.

Steve remained silent. His eyes bored a hole in the wood floor of his apartment, a tick working in his jaw as the thought. She seemed intransigent; there was no way he could convince her.

"I'm taking a flight that leaves in two hours." Natasha broke the silence. Her voice was calm but firm. "Are you going to be on it or not?" The question left no option for any further arguing.

Steve didn't like the idea. No one with the tiniest bit of common sense would, let alone former S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. But he could tell from the determination in her voice that she was going to do it anyway. With or without him. And he wasn't going to let her down. They were a team. They were friends. _Friends. _Steve's mind lingered on the word for a second. Was that really all she was to him? Was that the reason he knew from the very second she stepped through his door that he was going to go wherever she asked him to go?

His eyes shifted to the bookshelf across the room, allowing himself a few more moments to think. Finally, he exhaled and met her gaze. "Alright, let's do it," he nodded.

Natasha's body visibly relaxed and he saw the corners of her mouth curve into a smile. He took a breath and began to walk towards his bedroom to pack, hoping that this decision wouldn't come back to haunt them.

* * *

><p>The Mount Rushmore National Memorial is visited by nearly three million people every year, easily making it South Dakota's top tourist attraction. More than three times as many photographs are taken here than other places by friends, couples and families who travel up to the Northern half of the country. Later when they would go through all the photos, they would see the sculptures of the heads of four former United States presidents carved into the granite walls of the Black Hills. Their eyes would linger on the ponderosa pines on the mountainside, the forest becoming more and more sparse as it rose upwards, as if the trees themselves were trying to climb the rocks, only a few succeeding.<p>

Tourists would see themselves in the pictures, smiling before the beautiful landscape, completely unaware of the hidden tunnels and caves forming an extensive network underneath the mountain, some small, others bigger. The visitors would tell numerous stories about the day they visited the faces of the first hundred and thirty years of American history, but none would be filled with facts about a secret Hydra base operating below the surface.

None of the men and women suspected a middle-age, slightly balding man to be a Nazi officer as he walked past them on the Avenue of Flags on a beautiful autumn afternoon. He wore a dark leather coat with matching dark pants and nicely polished black boots reflecting the sky above. Nothing that would distinguish him from the dozen other people bundled in similar outfits. The monocle might be considered a little unusual, but everyone had their quirks. Some of the younger children who had never seen such an odd trinket pulled at their parents' sleeves, trying to call their attention. The man looked down at a few of them, even cracking a smile. The children were often hushed and dragged on, the image of the monocle quickly erased from their memories.

The crowd took no notice of the man as he subtly looked around before a swift change in direction, deviating from the concrete walking path. The crackling noise of the gravel underneath his feet was quelched by the sound of joyful laughter. He made his way under the trees to the foot of the mountain, wading through the growing shadows of the setting sun like a specter. After he had entered the hidden passageway leading deep into the facility, no evidence of him being at the memorial that day would be left.

The baron entered the tunnels, heading to the main operating room. He walked through the large archway and was met by several high ranking officers. They all ceased their work and stood to attention, waiting silently for any order they should receive.

"Mr. Strucker," an elderly man nodded and walked to meet his superior in the middle of the room.

"The archer?" von Strucker asked, bypassing the unnecessary formalities.

"We have placed him in a cell as you wished." The words came out prim and respectful, but the twitch near the lower left hand corner of his mouth told the baron the man was intimidated. "We haven't talked to him as we thought it better to wait with it until your arrival."

"Take me to him."

* * *

><p>The noise of approaching footsteps echoed in the chamber. Clint Barton's eyes flicked open. He had wondered how long it would take for someone to finally "enlighten" him about Hydra's intentions. He wasn't sure how much time had passed since they captured him. A few hours? Maybe a day? It was hard to tell time between four concrete walls. He shook his throbbing head, trying to clear the remaining fog that lingered from his fight.<p>

He kept replaying the sequence of events in Zürich over and over in his head, analyzing each movement that had ultimately lead to his capture. He had done everything the same way he always had before entering enemy territory. First, discreetly acquainting himself with the area, wherever it happened to be. He had spent three or four days analyzing the surrounding area, both near the warehouse and around his hotel. Second, making sure the areas around his target were secure. Again, he had spent a few days checking and re-checking. He had moved swiftly and silently, taking out a few of Hydra's guards on his way through. He had been nothing more than a shadow on a wall, easily missed by those who knew naught what to look for. Apparently, he hadn't been fast enough. He remembered feeling the cold metal of a barrel jammed into the back of his head, the click of it and many other weapons cocking behind. There had been a door beside him. The guard who held the gun to his head had ordered him to stand and then drop his weapons. He had only obeyed one of those orders. His hand had barely brushed the rusted handle before he was behind the door. He could hear the pings of the bullets ricocheting off the metal, pockmarks forming where they had hit. Quickly, he had pulled a thin cable arrow from his quiver, thrusting one end neck height into the concrete wall and the other into the opposite side of the frame.

A loud bang thundered from behind the door, causing Clint to jump back. He had turned and ran, passing through aisles of shelving units piled with boxes and parcels of various shapes and sizes. Sprinting forward, his eyes lighted on a door across the room. He skidded around the corner. Time had been against him, he needed out. Reaching for the handle of the door, he turned it but nothing happened. His eyes widened. He tried again, this time leaning his full weight into it. Teeth clenched, sweat dripped. His muscles screamed as they tried to budge the door. Finally, it began to give, but only just. Dingy rays of sunlight peeked through the crack. He pressed into the door again and slowly he could hear it scraping across the ground, opening. There was a blast from the other end of the large room. They had gotten through.

"Damnit! Open, will you!" he grunted as he hit it angrily. The door moved again. The space was now little less than a foot in width. He could hear the boots of the Hydra agents pounding against the concrete floor. He glanced over his shoulder and then back at the door. He couldn't waste any more time. Slipping his quiver off his back, he began to squeeze through the small opening. It was a tight fit and slow going. Clint swallowed. His throat was dry. The sound of orders met his ears, the guards were closing in and he was still wedged between the frame and the door. Frantically, he began to squirm, forcing himself through the space that was too small.

He fell out the other side onto the metal grate and over the ancient pipe that had been blocking the door, but in his sudden exit his quiver had been lost, left inside the warehouse. Gun shots rang through the air and he felt a bullet graze his ear. Hydra was already on the other side of the door. He got up and flew down the stairs. He would have to worry about his quiver later, but the lack of it now left him feeling vulnerable and naked. Bullets whistled past his ears. He dodged but kept running. A thick electrical cable attached itself to a pole near the stairway. More gunshots echoed behind him. Yanking his bow off his shoulder he leaped into the air, pushing off the railing with his foot. Swinging his bow up and over he hooked it over the wire, ziplining down in a whir. He tried not to look down at the ground far beneath him.

Suddenly, he let out a cry of pain. His leg. He could feel the blood trickling down it from the newly made wound. He was almost to the other side, he could make it. He wished he was already there. This was the quickest way across, but where he was he was like a sitting duck. He heard the next gunshot before it hit him. The bullet passed through his forearm and he lost his grip. The ground that he had thought was so far away, in reality, wasn't, but it had still hurt. Something had fractured when he hit. Dazed and flooded with pain, he scrambled up. He needed to find cover. He began to run across the dirt covered ground. His ears rang and the noises around him sounded distant and tinny. His head hurt. Scratch that. _He _ hurt...everywhere. Voices called out behind him, but he couldn't make out what was said. He felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. Had he been shot again? He hadn't heard a gun fire. He reached his hand over. It was wet.

A man dressed in all black leaped out in front of him. Clint stopped short, staring at him. The fight that ensued was short lived. Clint's energy was all but spent, and soon he found his feet kicked out from under him and was forced to kneel on the ground, hands behind his back. His breathing was labored and his vision was shaky. The last thing he had remembered was looking up into a black mask, and then the sharp pain of the butt end of a gun cracked down on his skull.

Groggily, he had awoken with the sound of engines in his ears. He swallowed and stretched his jaw, ears popping. He must've be at a higher altitude, likely on a plane. There was a mildew smelling bag over his head, cinched around his neck. His head still spun and he was glad for the darkness that encased his vision. He hadn't know how long he had been on the plane, but had felt the descent and the less-than-smooth landing as its wheels came into contact with the landing strip. He had then been roughly removed from the cargo hold and lead to a different place.

That place being a roughly fifteen by fifteen foot, dimly lit room. There were no windows on the walls, the only source of light provided by a fluorescent tube attached to the ceiling. It was completely empty inside save for the two chains that attached themselves uncomfortably to his wrists, so Clint sat on the ground with his back against the cold concrete wall. His head slipped forward and hung down. It ached from where the guard had buttstroked him with the rifle. He still wasn't thinking clearly. He had made makeshift wrappings for his injuries from his clothing while kept in this pit of a prison, but he could feel his heart beat in each bullet wound. Echoes of passing footsteps outside the cell grated against his ears, but thankfully no one ever stopped by.

Clint was playing with the hole in his pant leg, trying to regather his focus when the lock to his door opened with a loud clang. He raised his head and examined his visitors with complete lack of interest reflecting on his features. Two guards entered and stood by the frame of the door, shortly followed by a third man whom he didn't recognize.

"Hallo, Mr. Barton," the man spoke. He had a slight accent which Clint had trouble recognizing. French, or German maybe? His voice was relaxed, calm, amused even. Clint shifted on the ground, eyes never leaving the man but narrowing slightly.

"My name ist Wolfgang von Strucker," he said as he stepped further into the room. The name sounded unfamiliar to Clint. Before he could say more, the archer interrupted.

"Good. Now I know what to carve into the head of the arrow I'm going to put through your skull." Clint kept his eyes locked on the baron, a hidden power play between the two men.

The baron chuckled. _Definitely amused,_ thought Clint. He leaned his head back on the wall with a grimace.

"That, for you Mr. Barton," continued Strucker, brushing off the empty threat, "would be slightly problematic. You see, we have carefully locked away your equipment. Your energies were spent in a futile attempt to evade capture. You are now dehydrated and lack proper nourishment. You have had sufficient blood loss from your wounds. Because of those you have lost the ability to properly fight, at least in a way that would be advantageous for you. You will find trying to escape in your current condition a feat only for those of superhuman abilities, that which you will never possess." The baron stood with his hands behind his back, his posture disgustingly authoritative, a smirk growing across his face. Clint sucked his cheeks in until they were hollow. He could feel his heart racing, each pulse pounding his nerves. People like Strucker made his blood boil. At least now he knew that they still had his bow.

"Why did you just execute me then, since I'm obviously of no use to you?"

The man let out another laugh. His smile and the amused wrinkles that creased his face almost made Clint nauseous. "We would not give such a man as you that painless of a death. But do not worry, killing you was never our intention. We have bigger plans for you. Much bigger.

"Why do I feel those plans won't include breakfast in bed and a free massage? What plans do you have in mind exactly?" Clint pushed himself off the floor, using the wall as a crutch. The thrumming in his head became unbearable and a new wave of dizziness clouded his vision. He clenched his teeth, looking back at Strucker with venom in his eyes.

"You'll find out in time, Mr. Barton," he smiled mockingly. "Until then, please enjoy Hydra's hospitality." The baron turned his back on the prisoner and headed for the door. He already crossed the threshold when Clint's voice called after him.

"Have you heard of Harry Houdini?" Clint had stepped away from the wall and was now standing in the middle of the cell, the chains taut. His voice held a hint of warning, the first hint of warning von Strucker had heard during their entire conversation. The baron paused a moment.

"The American illusionist?" he asked, with his back to the archer.

"Actually, he was Hungarian."

Strucker gave a quick sigh of annoyance and turned back toward Clint. "Is there something you wish to tell me, Mr. Barton, or do you find simple enjoyment in wasting my time?"

"You know what he was most famous for?" Clint asked.

"Is it perhaps getting himself stuck in nasty situations?" His jaw tensed in impatience.

"Close. His escape acts."

Von Strucker waited for Clint to continue, but the silence that followed made it clear that he wasn't going to say anything more.

The baron removed his monocle and began to clean it. "A riveting history lesson I will admit, Mr. Barton. However, I do not see how it's relevant in our situation."

"Oh, it's very simple," Clint said as he watched the man replace his eyepiece. "What the eyes see and the ears hear, the mind believes. Are you sure you see what you think you see?"

Von Strucker stood still, examining Barton's face before turning his back on him again, thoroughly finished with the archer's attempted mind game.

"See you around, Mr. Barton."

The massive metal door closed in Clint's face with a loud, heavy sound. Silence filled the room once more. He stumbled over to the wall and sat back down. Clint hoped that Von Strucker was only trying to appear as if he held all the cards. Clint had a sneaking suspicion that he was bluffing, that he wasn't the true author of this...scheme. Someone far more powerful must be making the moves. If his speculation held any weight, he had to find out who was behind the curtains. But for now he needed to rest. Clint leaned as comfortably as he could against the concrete and brick. If what Strucker had planned for him was as ominous as it sounded, he would need all the strength he could gather.


End file.
